


Look

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, Living Together, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mirror Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Irie is leaning over the bathroom counter, splashing water onto his face and trying to coordinate himself into alertness, when fingers land at the back of his neck and the resultant rush of panicked adrenaline pulls him to immediate awareness." Byakuran startles Irie with birthday wishes and gives him what he asks for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look

Irie doesn’t hear Byakuran come up behind him. This is mostly because he has the sink running, and partially because he’s only been out of bed ten minutes, and most of all because Byakuran can move with complete silence when he wants to, which is all the time when Irie is around. Irie is leaning over the bathroom counter, splashing water onto his face and trying to coordinate himself into alertness, when fingers land at the back of his neck and the resultant rush of panicked adrenaline pulls him to immediate awareness. He’s not sure what sound he makes; it’s a gasp, initially, but then there’s water against his mouth and he tries to inhale and chokes on the liquid, and what he ends up doing is wheezing and coughing over the sink while Byakuran laughs from over his shoulder.

“Careful, Sho-chan,” he suggests, his fingers trailing up now from Irie’s neck into his hair, dragging sensation out over the other’s scalp as Irie manages to stop coughing so he can devote all his oxygen to gasping for air instead. “You know your lungs aren’t meant for breathing water.”

“Byakuran,” Irie says, still leaning over the sink and with his heart skidding on adrenaline. “You  _scared_  me.”

“Who did you think I was?” Byakuran asks, as if his own presence isn’t sufficient reason to be startled by an unexpectedly intimate touch. He takes a step closer, fits his foot just alongside Irie’s; when he leans in to press hard against Irie’s spine his skin is very warm, even through the undershirt Irie usually wears to bed.

“I just didn’t know you were awake,” Irie tries to explain, although it’s difficult to hold onto his adrenaline-fueled irritation when Byakuran is settling his chin against Irie’s shoulder and ghosting his fingertips along the seam of Irie’s shirt. Irie can guess where that touch is headed, although he knows it’s dangerous to assume anything with Byakuran; he doesn’t move, stays leaning over the edge of the sink as he is, and Byakuran’s hand wanders farther, drags against the curve of his waist and down to his hip.

“Of course,” Byakuran says, his mouth so near Irie’s ear that his breath ruffles through the other’s hair. Irie shivers as all his skin prickles with a chill of reaction and Byakuran’s fingertips curl under the hem of his shirt to urge the fabric up by an inch. “I’m not going to miss a minute of your birthday.”

It takes Irie a moment to realize what Byakuran has just said. In his defense he’s distracted, both by the heat of Byakuran’s skin burning through the t-shirt over his shoulders and by the catch of fingertips against his hip, his attention fractured by the way Byakuran is walking his touch up and across the flat of Irie’s stomach like he’s charting new territory.

“Oh,” he says, his voice quivering in time with his body as Byakuran’s hand flattens against his skin and drags friction up over the edge of his ribcage. “I forgot.”

“I know,” Byakuran says against his ear. His other foot slides to fit between Irie’s next to the first, to hold the other’s stance apart by a few inches. “That’s why I came in to remind you.”

“Thanks,” Irie deadpans, or tries to deadpan, except that Byakuran has braced his fingers and is scraping his nails down over Irie’s skin in a drag of sudden sensation, so the word comes out as a shudder instead. Irie braces a hand at the counter, trying to steady himself against the rush of heat that hits his blood like his body has only just realized he’s awake, and Byakuran laughs against his hair and does it again.

“Today’s your day,” Byakuran tells him, pushing his hand up higher so he can drag his palm across Irie’s chest. “What do you want to do, Sho-chan?”

“ _God_ ,” Irie says, feeling shattered already. He’s half-hard against the edge of the counter and going harder with every movement of Byakuran’s hand over him; it would be nice if he could blame his responsiveness on being half-asleep, but there’s no point, not when they would both know it for a lie. “Does it matter?”

“Hmm?” Byakuran’s fingers catch and pinch against one of Irie’s nipples; when he tugs Irie can feel the ache of the pressure run all down his spine to twitch his cock still harder at the lip of the counter. “What are you talking about?”

Irie has to take a moment to breathe, to collect the scattered pieces of his attention from the catchpoints where they want to linger: the ache of heat rising low in his stomach, the drag of Byakuran’s fingers against him, the weight of the other’s body pressing flush against his spine. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he manages finally, sounding mostly petulant and only a little bit flushed into heat. “We’ll end up doing what you want anyway.”

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, doing a decent approximation of hurt feelings. “You wound me.” His fingers twist harder, jolt Irie right up to the edge of pain before he lets go to flatten his palm to the other’s chest and stroke a smooth line of heat down the center of Irie’s ribcage, over the rush of his breathing and down to the softer tension at his stomach. “As if I would steal your day like that.”

“You  _would_ ,” Irie says, even though he shouldn’t be protesting, not with the way Byakuran’s hand is still drifting lower, past his navel, down to skim the top edge of his boxers. “You  _always_  do what you want, my opinion doesn’t--” Byakuran’s hand skips over the edge of elastic, drags feather-light against the tented fabric of Irie’s boxers, and Irie’s breathing stutters, his hips canting forward of their own accord. “ _Oh_.”

“You think I don’t care about your opinion?” Byakuran asks, sounding dangerously sweet. His other hand curls into a hold at Irie’s hip, gentle and steady and as unbreakable as iron. “After all this time?”

“I  _know_  you don’t,” Irie manages, seeing the flame of danger this path is taking and unable to stop himself from moving towards it. Byakuran’s hand is still hovering just against him, the contact tantalizingly close and just out of any useful level of contact. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” He rocks his hips forward, or tries to; all it would take is an inch, a centimeter of motion to grind his cock against Byakuran’s palm, to find a fraction of satisfaction for the desire starting to unwind itself into tension in his veins. But Byakuran’s hold at his hip aborts the motion before it has begun, turns the attempt into bruises instead, and Irie whimpers at the failed attempt, his fingers dragging desperation against the countertop.

“That’s not true,” Byakuran says, his tone dipping poisonous, the words a threat in his throat, and Irie shudders with it, trembling under the fresh rush of adrenaline in his veins. “I care about you.” His fingers are still bruising Irie’s skin, his palm still just shy of contact; Irie tries to move again, fails again. “What do you want to do, Sho-chan?”

Irie groans. His fingers find the edge of the sink, traction enough to give force to his motion; when he rocks forward this time it’s desperate, the whole strength of his body attempting to bring himself against Byakuran’s hand. The grip at his hip stays steady, unflinching, and Byakuran hums against his ear and shifts his foot between Irie’s. When he moves it’s to tilt his weight forward, to fit his hips to the other’s; his cock is hot, hard, grinding a promise into Irie’s skin while that hold denies him immediate satisfaction.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Irie manages, the sound sharp and anxious on his tongue. “ _Byakuran_.”

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran purrs, a taunt, an offer. He grinds himself in harder, close enough that Irie can feel the ridge at the head of his cock straight through the intervening layers of clothing between them, and Irie whines again, quivers through another flush of heat that spills damp at the head of his cock. “What do you want?”

“You know,” Irie says, knowing it won’t be enough, pinned as he is between Byakuran’s hips and the taunting almost-friction of his palm. He doesn’t even have his glasses on, can’t make anything but blurs out of his surroundings, and he’s still sure that he’d be coming within five minutes if Byakuran wanted him to be.

“Tell me,” Byakuran says, like Irie knew he would, and draws his hand in closer, lets his palm drag up against Irie through his boxers for a moment of sudden friction. Irie groans, his knees threatening collapse, and Byakuran slides his palm in harder, curls his fingers to catch the shape of Irie’s cock through the fabric as he breathes against his hair. “Sho-chan.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Irie says, because it’s true, and because it’s what Byakuran wants to hear, the words forming themselves on his lips from the rhythm of Byakuran’s rocking motion against his hip. Byakuran’s fingers tighten around his cock, nearly forming a grip around the taut-stretched fabric, and Irie keens, his whole body jolting forward towards the friction. “ _Please_.”

“Right here?” Byakuran asks, the words slurring to suggestion, the answer Irie is meant to give written in the pattern of his breathing.

“Yes,” Irie says.

Byakuran laughs against his hair, rolls his hips forward hard enough to grind Irie hard against his touch. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Irie says, and Byakuran purrs, lets his hold on Irie go long enough to slide his fingers inside the elastic of the other’s boxers so he can press his fingers directly to flushed-hot skin. Irie groans, his cock offering up another spill of pre-come, and Byakuran hums consideration, presses his fingers against the slick and draws them down sticky on Irie’s cock.

“It’ll take a minute,” he says, letting his hold on Irie’s hip go as his fingers trace out the shape of the other’s length to drag tantalizing friction in their wake. Irie braces himself against the counter, gasps through the heat of Byakuran’s touch, and there’s pressure hooking under the edge of his boxers to urge the fabric off his hips and down his thighs until they fall to the floor. “You’ll need to hold on for me, Sho-chan.”

“Okay,” Irie says, a surrender made meaningless by those that he’s already offered. He braces his arms against the countertop, let his head fall forward while he tries to catch his breath, and Byakuran pulls his hand away, withdrawing the friction of his touch at the same time that he steps back from his too-close lean against Irie’s back. His absence leaves Irie shivering with cold, his skin thrumming discomfort at the loss and anticipation for what is to come at the same time.

“This is an exciting way to start the day,” Byakuran says, some little distance away from the back of Irie’s neck. There’s the sound of plastic clicking over itself, a lid coming open, and Irie can’t hear the liquid hit Byakuran’s fingers but he can imagine, can feel his blood quiver itself into steam at the expectation of coming contact. “You’re quite kinky, Sho-chan, to want this first thing on your birthday morning.”

“I didn’t,” Irie protests, knowing it’s a futile denial, making the attempt anyway. Byakuran reaches past him to set a bottle against the counter, lets his hand settle against the bruises at Irie’s hip again as Irie takes a breath and feels his legs tremble with anticipation. “You came in here and started this, it’s only because--” There’s a touch, a slick drag of cool against his skin, and his words cut off as if with a knife, Irie’s throat closing up on the jerk of reflexive reaction to the friction. Byakuran laughs low behind him, his hold on Irie’s hip urging the other backwards, and when his fingers glide across Irie’s entrance it’s with enough force to make the friction a promise.

“Because what, Sho-chan?” he asks, and his fingers shift in their angle, spread apart so he can fit one just inside Irie’s body. Irie tenses against the intrusion, a reflex too strong to overcome by will alone, and Byakuran laughs and presses in deeper.

“Because you were touching me,” Irie manages, aware that he is whimpering and wholly unable to control the whine under his voice. Byakuran’s pressing inside him, the thrust slow and careful like he’s uncertain about the motion, but when he angles his finger to press hard against Irie his aim is unerring, shocks a wave of heat through the other so intense it’s not even comprehensible as pleasure for the first moment. Irie’s hands tighten to fists, his knees trembling under the strain, and Byakuran hums behind him, draws his hand back and thrusts in again to pull another jerk of reaction from Irie’s shoulders.

“Just from me touching you?” he asks, purring the words into a taunt as his touch works Irie open. “Are you that sensitive, Sho-chan?”

“Fuck,” Irie says, more of a statement than a directed curse. His arms are shaking against the counter; he opens the fists he’s made of his hands, spreads his fingers wide on the counter so he can push himself backwards, towards the slick angle of Byakuran’s fingers. “More.”

“Already?” Byakuran asks, but he’s laughing and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He twists his hand, wrings a groan from Irie with the friction, and then there’s a second finger sliding in alongside the first, the stretch enough to shudder another tremor of reaction all the way up Irie’s spine to overwhelm his thoughts for a moment. Byakuran sighs, something of resignation and something of satisfaction, and when he moves it’s to step in closer, to fit his hips in against Irie’s as his fingers slide deeper into the other.

“You’re beautiful, Sho-chan,” he says, turning the words over into consideration, like he’s a little bit surprised by what he’s saying. “You’re shaking every time I move.”

“ _God_ ,” Irie chokes, and Byakuran angles his fingers wider, washes his thoughts to white with the pressure. “Byakuran,  _please_.”

“You should really see yourself,” Byakuran says. He lets his hold on Irie’s hip go, pauses the rhythm of his fingers; Irie is left trembling against the counter, aching with the stretch of Byakuran’s touch inside him while the other leans forward to reach past his bracing hands and over the blur that Irie can make out of the countertop. “Here.” Byakuran doesn’t wait for Irie to move, doesn’t pause for the impossibility of Irie lifting his hands from their position; he’s lifting his own hand instead, bringing the dark outline of what he’s holding closer until Irie’s vision resolves it into frames, the shape of his glasses left forgotten on the counter.

“Oh,” he says, and then, looking up to the blur of the mirror in front of him: “ _Oh_ ,” more panicked and less overheated. But Byakuran is fitting the frames to his face, settling the familiar weight of them over Irie’s ears and against the line of his nose, and the reflection Irie can see in the mirror comes suddenly, embarrassingly clear. He can see his own eyes gone wide and shocked, his mouth still open on the sound of surprise; he can see the tension in his arms, the angle of his legs braced wide against the floor, and the flushed color of his cock straining up to brush the trailing edge of his shirt.

“Oh god,” he says, feeling himself starting to go red, unable to look at anything except for the self-consciousness cresting to color across his cheeks. “Byakuran, the bed.”

“Why?” Byakuran asks, replacing his hold at Irie’s hip and resuming the motion of his fingers. Irie can see the way his own expression goes slack at the thrust, the way his mouth falls open and his eyes go heavy-lidded with unmistakeable arousal; it’s embarrassing, obscene even without the accompanying twitch of his cock, and he ducks his head, gasps down at the countertop to limit his view of himself to his periphery.

“This is embarrassing,” he says, hearing his voice crack on self-consciousness, hyper-awareness flushing his skin hot with sensitivity as Byakuran’s fingers drag and stretch him open. “I don’t like seeing myself.”

“Why not?” Byakuran’s fingers tighten at Irie’s hip, brace him steady; the next thrust is harder, hard enough that it arches Irie’s spine and throws his head back in the first shocked rush of friction. “You’re beautiful when you’re like this.”

“Oh god,” Irie chokes out, his throat straining on the sound as Byakuran angles his fingers wider, the stretch of the sensation shivering reaction all the way up his spine.

“Look,” Byakuran says, and the hold at Irie’s hip is gone, fingers are trailing up his back instead to close at the nape of his neck. When Byakuran pushes the motion forces Irie’s head forward, turns him to face his own reflection; his gaze is hazy, unsteady even as he blinks, his cheeks flushed dark and going darker as Irie takes in his expression and processes the unthinking soft of his mouth, the way his lips are parted like he’s asking for something unheard. “Look at how hot you are already, Sho-chan.” Byakuran’s fingers thrust in deeper, harder; Irie’s eyelashes flutter involuntarily, his vision going dark in the reflexive motion, and Byakuran purrs, leans in closer against him so his breath ghosts along the back of Irie’s neck. “Look at how  _ready_  you look.”

“God,” Irie whimpers, his cheeks burning embarrassment as his cock goes harder with the heat of it, as his legs start to tremble uncontrollably with the heat in his veins. “ _Please_.”

“Are you ready for me?” Byakuran asks, low and teasing, turning his hand to drag a shiver of friction through Irie’s body. “Look at me, Sho-chan.”

“Fuck,” Irie says, clear with his eyes shut, and then he opens them, faces down the ruin of his own composure for the moment before he can slide his attention sideways, can focus his eyes on Byakuran’s reflection at his shoulder, on the sharp edge of his smile and the shadowy threat in his eyes. Byakuran’s smile goes wider as Irie meets his gaze, his eyes gone nearly black, and he’s drawing his fingers back and out even before Irie manages a lungful of air to choke out another “ _Please_ ” like he’s begging for mercy he knows he won’t receive.

“Of course,” Byakuran purrs, solicitous as he turns his head in to drag his teeth against Irie’s ear, still holding the other’s reflected gaze so Irie can’t look away. “It’s your birthday, you can have whatever you want.” His hand drops from Irie’s neck, there’s the motion of fabric from behind him, and Irie shivers again in pure anticipation this time as Byakuran kicks his feet free of his dropped clothing and presses back in close to fit his cock flush against Irie’s hip. He’s very hot, slick to the touch even before he wraps his fingers around himself; Irie thinks hazily of burning skin, of heat branding red against him at every point Byakuran touches.

“I hope you’re ready,” Byakuran tells him, without a gap in the words to allow for protest if Irie’s not. He hooks his thumb under Irie’s shirt, pushes the fabric high to bare his chest in the image of the mirror; Irie only glances at it for a moment, flushes darker at how pink with sensitivity all his skin is, and then he’s looking at Byakuran again, far more interested in the way Byakuran’s eyelids dip as he considers Irie’s bare skin, as he draws his other hand around and down Irie’s stomach. “You  _look_ like you’re ready.”

“God,” Irie says again, a pointless plea, and Byakuran laughs against his hair and lets his fingers skim against the other’s cock. Irie’s hips jolt forward, force his weight in towards Byakuran’s hands without any decision on his part, and he does look down, then, the electricity of the contact enough to catch and hold his attention. Byakuran’s fingers are curling around him, the almost-translucent pale of his hands contrasting vividly with the dark color of Irie’s cock; his movements look graceful, artistic, like he’s embarking on something far more elegant than just jerking Irie off over the bathroom counter. But if his movements are gentle his hold is not; his fingers are stronger than they look, close around Irie and press into near-bruising force, and Irie is groaning with the weight of it when Byakuran’s cock slides against him to fit against his entrance. He tenses all at once, startled into a reaction he didn’t intend, but Byakuran doesn’t wait; he’s thrusting instead, forcing himself in past Irie’s stretched-slick entrance and leaving Irie to groan his way through the drag of friction as Byakuran’s cock slides into him.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says against Irie’s ear, a shudder of sound Irie can’t identify as more amused or chastising. “You’re so  _tight_ ” and the hold on his cock is moving, is dragging up over him, and Irie shudders into relaxation in the first rush of sensation. Byakuran thrusts farther into him, taking advantage of the moment to force all Irie’s breath out of him at once, and then they’re together, Irie can feel Byakuran’s cock stretching him wide as he watches pale fingers stroke over the flushed color of his own.

“Look,” Byakuran says again, drawing back to give Irie another shattering rush of sensation, dragging his hand over the other’s length with less rhythm than force, drowning Irie in a flood of stimulation he can’t hope to fight against. “Look at yourself, Sho-chan.” The hand at his shirt pushes higher, fingers catching to brace against his throat and pin the fabric up against his collarbones, and Irie gasps, and shakes, and looks. He’s flushed all over his body, from the dark weight of his cock in Byakuran’s hold all the way up to the swollen red of his lips, to the scarlet staining his cheeks with embarrassment. His eyes are darker than he’s ever seen them himself, the pupils gone so wide they look black, so wide he looks drunk, drugged, intoxicated past the point of saving. His hair is a mess, his lungs working so hard on his breath he can see the motion of his ribcage under his skin, and then Byakuran fucks hard into him and he rocks forward with a shattered groan, the impact pressing his throat the harder against Byakuran’s bracing hand.

“You look so good,” Byakuran tells him while Irie’s vision is still slurring to white, while the drag of his breathing in his chest is still dominating all his attention. “Can you see yourself shaking?” His hand shifts, his fingers bracing hard at Irie’s throat, and it’s warning enough for Irie’s fingers to drag helplessly over the countertop, seeking untenable friction in the moment before Byakuran jerks over him and thrusts hard into him in the same motion. Irie can see the movement, the tremor running up his arms and along his throat, and Byakuran is purring against his hair and breathing harder with each motion of his hips and Irie can watch it, can see Byakuran’s smile against his shoulder and the way the other’s hand fits around him and the cut of purple eyes at his, can see all Byakuran’s actions telegraphed into jolting motion in his own body.

“Oh god,” Irie manages, and he’s leaning hard against Byakuran’s hold, he’s tipping forward until it’s only the other’s arm around him that is keeping him anything like upright. The counter is digging in against his hips, the tremor in his arms making his attempt at bracing himself useless. His glasses are askew, his hair a tangle, and he can’t breathe, can’t think clearly enough to blame the pressure of Byakuran’s hand for his oxygen-deprived dizziness. His hand slips, his eyes drag into focus on his own reflection, on the slack shape of his mouth around his breathing and the glaze over his eyes. He looks like someone else, like obscenity given form, and whatever self-consciousness still remains to him gives way, melts to steam that flushes dark across his cheeks.

Irie reaches up, presses a palm to the mirror; the glass is cold against his hand, the clean of the reflection hazing under the heat of his skin. Byakuran laughs but Irie doesn’t look at him; he’s watching himself, staring at the dark of his pupils blowing wider in anticipation, at the strain shaking through his braced-out shoulder. Byakuran is moving faster, harder, going deeper with each thrust of his hips, but Irie is detaching, he’s floating separate from the rhythm of Byakuran fucking into him, as if his connection to the separate physical sensations has come unfastened entirely. There’s just pressure, now, strain building along his spine and under the quiver of his thighs and in the taut weight of his cock under Byakuran’s stroking hand; his mouth comes open, his chest expands on a gasp of air, and Irie can see his eyes go out-of-focus, can see the wave of pleasure hit him a split-second before he feels it. His vision goes all at once, blurring itself into a smear of colors as if he isn’t wearing his glasses at all, his throat choking on a groan of relief as he starts to come; then the heat hits his legs, shoulders, spine, tensing into convulsive waves of pleasure that leave him collapsing forward over the edge of the sink, even his feet arching to curl his toes against the cold floor. His head hits the mirror, his forehead catching some of the cool of the glass, and behind him Byakuran hums satisfaction, leaning in close against him while he takes his last few thrusts. Irie is barely starting to relax, the tension in his body only just beginning to release him to the support of the countertop, when Byakuran sighs against his shoulder and comes into him, the heat enough for Irie to feel even over the sweat-slick radiance of his own skin.

Byakuran keeps his feet, afterward. Irie can feel the slick slide as Byakuran pulls out of him, the drag of Byakuran’s fingers over his skin as the other slides his hand away from Irie’s neck and out from under his abused shirt. He still doesn’t move, isn’t sure he could if he tried; it’s not until Byakuran’s hand closes on his wrist and pulls at the hand still braced against the mirror, that he even manages a whimper of response.

“Come on, Sho-chan,” Byakuran purrs. There’s another hand, now, fingers winding through Irie’s hair, a touch that would feel gentle if Irie didn’t know about the steel underneath it. “We should get you cleaned up. You have a busy day today.”

Irie lifts his head. The mirror is smeared, his glasses askew; his vision comes out-of-focus, blurred around the plastic frames and the streaks his fingers have left on the mirror. But he can see the wet gasp of his breathing still dragging past his lips, and the color of his eyes still eclipsed into shivering aftershocks of pleasure, and he can see Byakuran behind him, pale hair and the sharp points of his tattoo and eyes dark with too many emotions to name.

When Byakuran sees Irie watching him, he smiles.


End file.
